gold rush
by combeferring
Summary: And she has to question what it really means to live—- Dominique/James, for Kaye.


**Authors Notes—- **This is a quite (ha) belated Birthday present for Kaye (intersections)! I hope that you don't mind this being, oh, over half a year late. But I hope you had a brilliant day and a fantastic year and thank you for being such a lovely friend.

Please don't favourite without leaving a review, thank you!

**Disclaimer—- **Nothing is mine, all the characters belong to JKR.

**Warning—- **This does contain cousincest—if you don't like it, don't read it.

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**gold rush  
**_james/dominique_

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She wakes up in the afternoon feeling hollow, filled with nothingness, and she wonders where it's all going. She pulls air into her lungs and pushes it back out; her heart forces blood through the network of veins and arteries that she doesn't understand; her brain ticks over little things like a clock. Even when she feels her lowest and her body is numb and she thinks that she might as well be dead, two fingers find her wrist and press down over the area where blue veins shine through so that the thump reminds her.

She lives, she lives. She shall get up and continue to live.

But, in the dead of night when she is splayed beneath a stranger, she wonders what life actually is. Her father says that there is more to life than ripped tights and teetering heels, than brightly coloured shots and bottles of firewhiskey, than moving from man to man. But she isn't so sure because surely life is the fact she can do these things and, okay, maybe she likes to close her eyes and pretend that the faceless stranger is someone else, but her heart flutters and blood rushes and she breathes.

This is life.

So she pushes herself to her feet again and makes herself a coffee, throwing her bedfellow out of her flat before the sun is in the sky. And then she props her feet up against the windowsill to watch colours bleed together at dawn and the sound of birdsong fills the sky because she doesn't like to sleep with blackness around her. Shadows can suffocate, so she pours enough coffee into her system to keep her going and, even when her hands shake and her legs tremble, she keeps going.

Keep breathing, keep breathing. It's all that matters.

-:-

He is temptation from the tips of his black hair to his flashing socks and it's so bloody stupid that she finds him attractive. Common sense states that she should find him to be a nerdy gawk who isn't worth her time of day but she knows. She knows how his hips roll against hers and what he can do with this tongue, his fingers, his thumb. She knows that he humours her and lets her press her lips to his pulse points to feel the blood thrumming through him.

She hadn't known he would be here when she came and she hovers unsurely in the doorway, watching the knot of people in the centre of the room and the person who sits away from them, lost in his own thoughts. It's bad, she knows, but she wants to feel his hands holding her so tightly that he leaves palm-shaped bruises on her snow white skin. She wants him to scrape his nails down her spine and make her knees weak. She wants his name to burn in her throat.

"Dom!"

She has been noticed and, even if it is only Albus who breaks free of his friend, she feels a little less like a ghost-girl who isn't living properly and who only comes alive at night when the scum walks the earth.

He notices her then, when Albus calls her name, and he turns to look at her, his face the thinnest she's ever seen it. So thin that he looks gaunt, she thinks, but Albus eclipses her view of him as he hugs her and she finds her face pressed against the scratchy wool of her cousin's jumper.

"You look like death," Albus tells her, leaning back to examine her face with the deep purple bruises marring the pale skin beneath her eyes and the way her lips are cracked from too many cigarettes, "Your Mum is going to go _spare_."

But everyone goes spare of what Dominique does—anything and everything sets the family off because she's Bill Weasley's daughter, Harry Potter's niece, another member of the Weasley family and she isn't the golden girl they need her to be. Victoire and Louis, for all their faults, do their duty before the cameras but she has never been one for rules, too fond of slipping into the grey areas of morality.

"Yeah, you know what," she says suddenly, detaching Albus' arms from around her, pushing her hair away from her face so that golden strands tangle around her fingers, "I have to go. Tell Aunt Ginny I said hi."

"You can't just _go_," Albus objects but Dominique is halfway out the door, ignoring him as she dances along the street. Albus will return to his friends and the only person that will watch her make her way down the path will be _him_, sitting away from the group in the room.

Hood up, sunglasses on, blonde hair hidden. She runs through the checklist in her head as she picks her way down the street, the world suddenly a lot darker thanks to the tinted lenses. She can hear the blood rushing and it makes her a little light headed but she continues on, one foot in front of the other along the cracked pavement. Keep going, keep going.

He catches up with her when she has a cigarette in her mouth and a lighter in her hand, the smoke curling like ribbons as it floats up towards the sky. Neither of them speak but they don't really need to—the increased thudding of their hearts, the blood that has rushed to her cheeks, the slight flutter of his hands says it all.

_I want you_, she thinks as he pulls his own cigarette from the box she offers, his callused thumb fumbling on the lighter for a moment. _I want you all to myself_.

He looks as bad as her, his shirt crumpled and his eyes bloodshot but there is something about him that makes her warm inside, makes her realise why she swings her too-skinny limbs out of bed in the morning. He makes her remember how he can make her feel, like he can set her on fire and send those feelings through her body.

And he's utterly forbidden, which makes it that little bit more delicious. Like the fact that she shouldn't know how his fingers can find the most sensitive spots makes him more desirable.

He presses the lighter back into her palm and she pockets it casually, like the feel of his skin against hers didn't send explosions up her arm. Keep going.

"How's life?" he asks, the grey ghosts from the glowing tip of his cigarette spiralling up to dance with hers.

Such a small question but her mind kicks into action immediately and all her thoughts spill out, spreading like a stain as he listens. He always listens, never makes her shut up.

"Life is just breathing," she says bluntly, "Nothing ever changes with that."

Then comes the discussion. He likes putting points against her, making her brain move a little faster to counteract him.

"But don't you think living is more than oxygen?" he says this time, taking a seat on the curb and tucking his knees to his chest.

She follows him to the ground, sprawling her pale legs in front of her. A moon-shaped cut curves over her knee from a nasty fall outside a club and absently she traces the outline of it. He watches for a moment and then bats her hand aside, rougher and thicker fingers take over.

"What do you mean?" she asks as something in her chest goes frantic, so wild that she fancies she can hear it. His touch always sends her wild, be it deliberate or not.

"Living is a series of little important moments that add together to create a big picture," he says quietly, his fingers marching up her leg now with pauses to etch patterns into her skin, "And each moment is crucial so you have to let life rule you. You don't rule life."

"Yes you do," she argues back, placing her hand over his because he's persisting the journey of his fingers and they're going dangerously high, causing her breathing to border on erratic, "You control breathing—you can stop breathing. You can stop someone else breathing by killing them. You can rule life."

There is silence and she thinks that she has won this round but there is a half smile on his face, a half smile that says it all. The warmth of victory, barely settled, begins to retreat.

"Can't choose who you fall for, though," he says and she thinks that he has deliberately left the _you _out so that it doesn't scream of accusation. But she hears it and feels the association with her. "If you can rule life, you could choose that."

"Fuck you," is all she says, tossing the end of her cigarette down and standing up in a fluid movement.

Immediately she misses the loss of contact between them but the feelings of elation in her chest that had been coursing through her body have been replaced by annoyance and the blood is roaring in her ears again. He is the only person that can throw the switch inside of her like that.

"Dom, wait," he calls after her but she keeps going, kicking stones on the pavement until he physically stops her, his thick arms wrapping around her frame to hold her back.

He's warm and more memories come rush back, this time of her lying on his chest with his heartbeat drowning out her own. She likes that—she has a thing for feeling people's lives beneath her fingers, especially his. Especially his.

"Don't run away from me," he begs in her ear and she leans back against him, tipping her head back to look up at him.

"I want coffee," she says.

-:-

They go to her flat in the end, him standing watching her fiddle with the kettle until she thrusts the jar of coffee towards him.

"You had someone here last night," he states as she avoids his gaze, "I saw the boxers in the living room. Some poor sod's wandering round London without his underpants. Unless it's a regular—"

"I just needed someone," she says, pouring boiling water over the granules and ignoring the water that splatters, "You know how it is."

He doesn't reply as he splashes milk into both mugs, twirling a spoon in circles. She listens to the clatter of silver on china for a few minutes as neither of them say anything. Unspoken words hang heavy in the air so thickly that she fancies she can see them, the jagged edges slashing together as sentences crash about the four walls.

"You worry about the press too much," he says, the subject completely changed and she relaxes, leaning against her Muggle dishwasher, "You should let it go and do what you want. Stop worrying about the reporters and live a little."

"I do live," she says with a scowl because it always comes back to this, "I told you—"

"No," he interrupts and she feels shock radiate through her because he _never _cuts in, he always listens until she is finished, "I know you thinking living is breathing or some shit like that but it's _not_. Living is sharing your life with someone and you're too fucking stubborn to do that."

She doesn't know if she should laugh or cry at him. She does both in the end, her laughter so bitter that it feels as though it is cutting her to shreds as her eyes burn.

"You are so _stupid_," she finally says and her voice cracks a little bit but she ignores it and he does too.

Dominique isn't too sure how they move across the white tiled space towards each other but she finds herself in his arms, circled in warmth. His chest is rising and falling quickly and she can hear his breath in her ear, hot against her skin. Shivers go down her spine with so much force that it hurts and, just like that, she is burning, on fire for him.

"If I'm stupid, you are too," is all he says, hands splayed against her back. She can feel their heat sinking through the fabric of her clothes, branding their shape into his skin. Her eyes flutter closed.

What is a hug starts reasonably innocently but blossoms, his mouth trailing kisses down her neck, his tongue lingering over her pulse point to make the blood scream in her ears. Dominique goes limp as his mouth explores her but she responds in her own way, dragging her knuckles across the translucent skin that allows his veins to shine through and pressing her fingers to any scars on his body, memorising them.

"We should stop," she says once his fingers curl at the hem of her jumper, both of them tangled on the living room floor. She is thinking of the risks and the fact her floor is cold and how she hasn't brushed her hair. But then there is _him_, pressed against her with the offer of so much more than ever before.

He leans back, rough palms still pinning her down so that cool bleeds into her bones. He looks slightly bewildered now, as though he hasn't thought this far.

"Should we?"

She nods but pulls him back down to her anyway, sensations exploding and burning beneath the surface of her skin. It is far too hard to be aware of all the feelings around her but, as his scorching breath ghosts across her stomach, Dominique wonders where she went wrong, when she fell off the right track. When she decided she wanted this for herself.

But then his lips are elsewhere and all she can think and feel is him, his body crushing into hers and his hands in her hair. When was the last time a touch meant so much, when the swoop of someone's fingers made her weak?

"_Dom-in-ique_," he grinds out, his voice muffled by the curve of her shoulder and she trembles from it all, his own name spilling from her and tumbling between them.

"_James_—"

Something splinters inside of her and she drags James into oblivion with her.

-:-

It takes a while for all feelings and awareness to return to her as she silently pulls herself back together. He hasn't moved either, his arms wrapped around her as they lie on the floor whilst their breathing begins to return to normal. She can almost hear his mind ticking as he thinks but she chooses to listen to the unfaltering, unshakeable rhythm that his heart sets.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, a finger sweeping down the curve of her spine to settle at her hip to tap out a rhythm there, a rhythm that feels too familiar.

She shakes her head, all her limbs feeling oddly watery. It's a bit strange, actually, to feel this way but she won't tell him that. Time has moved on though and Dominique frees herself of her cousin's hold—Oh dear God, her cousin—to find her clothes.

James doesn't say anything as he props himself up, his eyes watching her as she flits about the room, light on her feet and gathering clothes together. She thinks he will be mute for a while yet but then he speaks.

"It's strange," he says, leaning his back against the coffee table and making no effort to dress, "That you are so set against believing in life when you are the one with the most to live for."

"Why are we talking about this again?" she asks, sliding into a t-shirt she has found and carefully fumbling to find her own pulse, checking she is still there. The tattoo of her heartbeat is there, throbbing.

He says nothing else and she doesn't push him, tossing his crumpled jeans at him. He catches them in one hand but still doesn't move, waiting until she attempts to pass by him before an arm slides out to capture her ankle. Sitting naked on her floor doesn't even seem to faze him and she wishes she was the same, that she has no regrets and that she can flop down with loose limbs to be with him without worry.

"We just had sex, Dominique," he says in a low voice that makes her ice enter her bloodstream and she has to sit down. His words, as effective as chaining her to the spot, have also caused her cheeks to turn red as she looks down at him, "You can't pretend this doesn't mean anything."

She only raises an eyebrow in a simple challenge.

"I do believe that I could," she says simply, resting her feet on his knees and watching his eyes darken, "It's not like we could ever do anything _normal_, is it?"

James looks away and Dominique wonders what he is thinking. She has spoken softly but the two sentences that came out have blackened the mood, making any trace of light heartedness vanish. But his hand remains at her ankle, massaging the protruding bone.

"I keep telling you that I want to try, Dom," is all he says after a pregnant pause, "And you keep leading me on."

_Because I want you so much it hurts, stupid_ flits through her mind but she remains silent. The more he knows, the more she can be hurt. But she is remembering all the times that he has pressed her into a corner to plead, his mouth meeting hers in desperation and every time she has skipped away, her heart a little closer to lead, to crawl beneath a stranger who won't make her feel as he does. Every time she has refused, she has become a little more melancholy and lost a little more faith in living.

Each time she is closer and closer to saying yes, to bringing herself back to normalcy and the world of the living. It's hard, being halfway to her grave.

"Try what?" she asks, playing for time as he shifts beneath her.

Watery light is now creeping into the room, a thin shaft of sunlight breaking out from behind the thick quilt of clouds. Dominique notices how it catches James' dark hair, bringing out flecks that are burnished copper in colour and she smiles, one corner of her mouth tugging gently upwards.

"A relationship," James says without looking at her, bowing his head as though it is painful to keep it upright. He reminds her a little of a drooping flower that is wilting before her very eyes and she automatically touches his cheek, cradling the curve of his face on one small hand with bitten nails.

His eyes are suddenly very dark as he leans into her palm, looking up at her with an unreadable expression. Dominique sits very still as his hands settle at her hips and, suddenly, the only sound she can hear is their breathing. It reminds her that she's there, still alive and in his lap.

Slowly, she leans her forehead against his. When she was little, she used to think pressing their heads together would let them talk telepathically but now it's more to do with comfort and closeness, the desire to be his when her heart just won't let her. James doesn't tear his gaze away until he closes his eyes, one hand moving from her waist to the back of her head to hold her in place.

After a heartbeat, Dominique closes her eyes too.

-:-

Dominique watches sunrise through a floor length window. The sun, no more than a sliver of gold, creeps over to horizon and illuminates the hulking shapes of the airplanes outside of the departure lounge. She sits on an uncomfortable blue chair, her legs crossed with her chin resting on her fist. Less than twenty-four hours ago she had been wrapped up in James, the warmth from his skin protecting her from the chill and his smell wrapping around her like a blanket.

It's actually hard to remember in the almost sterile airport atmosphere and she closes her eyes, trying to remember his face as he laughed.

She falls asleep at some point, waking with the weave pattern of the fabric imprinted on her cheek and someone's hand on her shoulder. Her limbs are slow and heavy, weighing her down like they are made of lead but she forgets that when she sees the man's face that peers down at her. Her heart rate picks up, thudding off of her ribs like there is a bird caught in her chest that wants to be free but she tries not to show it, smoothing a hand through her bedraggled hair.

"Flight 345 to Manaus?" he asks and she nods, still dazed from sleep, "It's about the board. Gate 45."

Clumsily, she stumbles to her feet. Her jeans have cut into her waist and she nearly drops her rucksack, as though her fingers aren't quite prepared to obey her so he takes her bag and carries it for her.

"What are you doing from there?" he asks, throwing her rucksack over his shoulder as though it weighs nothing.

Dominique shrugs carelessly as they follow the crowd of people that are following a snaking corridor towards Gate 45 where their airplane awaits.

"Find a canoe, I suppose," she says as they fall in line behind a tall man with an impressive handlebar moustache, "Explore the rainforest."

"Why?" he asks, looking at her with curiosity in his eyes and she feels her lips curling into a smile that she is unable to stop from creeping across her face.

"Someone once told me that living is about more than just breathing," she tells him as the line moves forward jerkily, heading towards a Muggle woman who is examining tickets, "They said it's about doing so I thought I'd give it a go, to see if I was wrong. Are you going to Manaus or are you just walking me to the Gate?"

He looks towards the doors that will lead them to the airplane, the piece of Muggle metal that will fly them across the world. He looks uncertain as he looks at her but behind the cloud of uncertainty she can see pleasure in his eyes, like her decision has proved he has been right in their discussions.

"I don't know," he says, "Is there room for another one in your canoe?"

Dominique lifts her bag from him, tossing it over her own shoulder. She can still feel her heart thudding and she offers him another smile as she holds a hand out to him.

James grins at her openly then, wrapping his callused palm around her fingers and squeezing gently. She beams back, wondering if this is what it feels like to live, to take a risk—a real risk—with the adrenaline running so high that she can taste it as she reaches up with her free hand, two fingers seeking out his pulse point. She can feel his life beneath her fingers and, still smiling, he presses a kiss to her temple.

Hand in hand, they leave Britain behind them, swapping grey cities with fast cars and smog for the rich foliage of the rainforest, the flashes of colour and the sense of being really, truly alive.

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I'd be ever so flattered if you liked this enough to favourite, but please don't do so without leaving a review, thank you!


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